


Glass Cannon

by corbaccio



Series: Fear of the Empty [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Universe, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Underage Drinking, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corbaccio/pseuds/corbaccio
Summary: Should he have found strength in wielding this power? If nothing else, Armin knew he should have been grateful. It was a second chance at life that multiplied itself out into countless more: fatal injuries would heal in a day, at most. To lose an arm, an eye, the teeth that filled his mouth—they would simply grow back again. And yet, it made Armin feel more powerless than ever.(Manual control of the Colossus does not come as easily as Armin would like. Which means practicing with Eren's aid on Shiganshina's wall.)
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager
Series: Fear of the Empty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108658
Comments: 16
Kudos: 145





	Glass Cannon

**Author's Note:**

> this is part of a series, but they are related in concept (armin getting used to his shifting abilities) rather than being direct sequels. you can easily read this as a stand-alone piece.

Armin’s spatial awareness was not terrible by any means, and of all his shortcomings that had never been one worth fretting over. Speed, strength, stamina—as a trainee, they had taken precedence over most everything else. It was a very different matter with the size of the Colossus. If Armin overshot something as a human, he rarely risked more than embarrassment; once transformed, that same mistake could cost lives. Already he had destroyed two cannons on top of the wall. His sole consolation had been that they were so old as to be useless now, anyway. On returning to Corps’ headquarters, Jean had been his usual brusque but conciliatory self. “You’ve probably done them a favour, getting rid of those things,” he had said that evening, flicking cards variably into his upturned hat and at Connie’s head. “Those cannons weren’t any good against titans even when they were actually there to fire them at.”

The words were kind, but the heart of the problem remained. Armin had little finesse as the Colossus. It seemed impossible that Bertholdt could have been so dextrous, but then, he had always had an accurate eye. In wilderness survival training, he could pick off a rabbit moving at speed at twenty paces. A still target board stood no chance; Bertholdt had blown out the bullseye every time. And though it felt so long ago now, that cold bright afternoon on Wall Rose played often in Armin’s memory. Bertholdt had managed to pick up Ymir—unconscious and ripped open, laid out on a pallet—with such delicate precision that she’d suffered no further injury. Meanwhile, it took Armin a concentrated effort to hold those enormous hands in front of his face. And even doing something so simple, they would feel clumsy, foreign, a stranger’s hands watched through a mirror’s inverting surface.

As a titan, Eren moved with human grace. It seemed like second nature to him. It had been from the start, as if his powers were a logical extension of his physical self; as if he were built for it. Maybe it had not always been easy—Eren had fought so much and for so long that the ease was deserved, those skills hard-won—but he had never struggled with such basic things. Wanting to move a certain way and moving thus. Armin only found it exhausting, both mentally and physically, and again he would find himself swallowing that bitter pill: just as his human body failed him, so did that of his titan. 

Despite Armin’s own frustration, or perhaps because of it, Eren was sanguine about his lacking ability. _It’s to be expected. Especially considering its size. Hell, it would be weirder if it_ was _easy_ , he would say, and Armin would feel guilty as much as grateful at the reassurance—that Eren felt obliged to give it, and that his own upset must have been so obvious. 

Really, Armin knew he was lucky; if he had not had Eren to confide in, he would have reached the end of his tether months ago. If, like Eren, he had been separated from everyone he knew and loved to be kept under the watchful eye and the waiting blade of an elite squad, forced to sleep alone in a locked room underground for weeks, he would have lost his mind. Pulled out of himself, skin steaming, muscles burning, Armin would marvel that Eren had managed these challenges alone, and without a single complaint.

Eren would always deny such strength. He would say again and again that anyone could have done what he did, had the responsibility been laid at their feet. How wrong he was. Nothing, Armin knew, could be further from the truth. It was a certainty so solid that it shook his very soul, and more certain still now Armin felt the weight of that responsibility on his own shoulders. And crushing though it might have been, all it ever took was a fleeting glimpse of Eren’s face to ease the burden. To remind Armin again of that which he could never forget; that which gave meaning to the endless struggle. He didn’t care whether Eren was a monster or a hero or a weapon, or humanity’s last and most desperate hope—those names meant nothing, more pithy than practical—only that he knew, as he had known from an age too young to put a number to, that Eren would get him to the ocean. No one else could do so. No one but Eren would have made the promise in the first place.  
  


* * *

  
It had only been a few weeks since Armin’s last visit to Shiganshina, but the changes made in that short space of time were apparent. That his carriage could travel so smoothly along this stretch of road attested to the impressive extent of their progress. It had been a laborious undertaking, but buoyed by victory and desperate for jobs, plenty of civilians had thrown themselves into this hard and dirty work with willing zeal. The most back-breaking tasks of Shiganshina’s reconstruction were managed by Eren. He could move in an hour what would take a team of men several days: rubble from the wall was cleared with ease; wrecked lots were emptied and levelled for rebuilding. It was strange—jarring, even—to see Eren put to this kind of use, but in a good way. Fighting was one thing, and one thing he had always excelled at, no question. But there was equally as much value in being constructive as destructive. 

It had taken a little time for the restoration workforce to acclimatise to a titan’s presence in their midst. Still, the Corps’ reputation preceded them here, too, as it did in most things these days. Eren was a hero in Paradis' eyes; every scout that had fought in the battle for Shiganshina was considered one. While some civilians yet remained uneasy, there were just as many eager to work alongside Eren, if only to catch a glimpse of him transformed.

He would not be working today. Not on construction, at least; no one would be. Shiganshina was deserted but for its stationed soldiers, and they were few and far between. The housing set up for the labourers stood silent and empty. Last time Armin had walked these same streets, they had thrummed with activity.

The quiet was no less unsettling for his expecting it. Shiganshina was no longer a wreckage of a town, after all; its heartbeat had grown loud and clear of late. There were so many signs of humanity, each shunting Armin into a near-forgotten past. The memories of his childhood stood in stark relief to his hometown now, but some things remained the same. The persistent stink of coal fire. The stray cats that skulked the alleys for scraps. And the sense of it—of people—the intangible miracle of voices and warmth and spirit as they breathed life again into this resuscitated place. Like the moss that overtakes the stone, men were capable of that: adapting, flourishing, making home where the land had been only cold and barren before. 

Word of the operation had been sent ahead of Armin’s arrival, hence the uncanny calm. It was always like this once the civilians were evacuated. With Shiganshina well on its way to being habitable, Armin could no longer transform _inside_ it. The district remained the base of the Colossus’ experiments, even so; the sole change was that Armin transformed on the external side of its wall. It was safe enough. As Hanji had supposed, most of the titans had congregated in Maria territory. Of the many times he had looked out upon the outside world, not once had Armin seen a titan at Shiganshina’s borders. 

Shifting outside was hardly any different from shifting within. He stood on grass rather than cobblestone. He saw the wide reach of the world beyond rather than a half-ruined town. He felt the wind more keenly, tasted sweeter air—but any novel excitement had been tempered by the reality, and the responsibility, of his being there. Most things were tempered with that nowadays, and though that truth still burned, it was not as intense as it used to be. Slowly but surely, Armin was growing accustomed to his own significance. The power he wielded, the lives given in his name. A debt that might never be repaid, one that ran so deep it was hard to imagine ever reaching its end… but he was alive. And he had to at least try.

Of course, trying meant nothing without results. The gains so far might have been small, but Armin knew better than to be precious about them—no matter how much sweat and blood he had shed over the past months to get here (and tears, those more privately). There had been many trials, and just as many errors. By now he could shift without issue, provided his mind was clear. He was conscious of what he did, though moving his titan’s body had yet to feel as natural as his human one. And recently he had got the knack for shifting without losing his gear in the process. Another minor victory, but one that had secretly thrilled him: now Armin could manoeuvre himself to the wall instead of waiting for someone to come recover him. Independence, wherever he could snatch it, was always worth the effort. 

The carriage juddered to an unsteady stop. As he stepped from it, Armin first saw the strange, crystalline relic of Eren’s titan form blocking the gate through to the outside world; and second, a squad of five standing nearby. Each was familiar even from behind. Hanji, Captain Levi, two engineers—Becker and Roth, employed mainly to manage the new lifts—and Eren himself. 

His name rose instinctively in Armin’s mouth, as it did every single time he saw Eren after so long apart. With it came the near-irresistible impulse to rush to him. Alone, he might very well have done so. In front of his superiors, it shrank to an embarrassing and childish whim. As he moved instead with measured steps, he felt the magnetic pull of Eren’s attention. Standing side-on to the others, he was the first to clock Armin’s arrival. Even just to meet his eye was enough; that known feeling unfurled within, an ancient fondness. Eren said his name with loud delight. While he did not run, Eren was quick to meet him on his way.

Armin sensed the weight of the embrace before Eren could give it, and then its cold absence as they stopped still in front of each other. Eren’s reserve was always slower to kick in than Armin’s own. There was a twist in his smile. His hands hovered between them, a reconsidering pause. Hollow as it felt to let pass the hug when he was expecting it—wanting it, more honestly—Armin set aside the disappointment. Later, maybe. It was a poor substitute, but Armin reached to take hold of his arms instead, hands clutching Eren’s elbows.

It wasn’t that Armin was starved of touch when Eren was not around. He shook hands, he sat close; he held Mikasa before they parted for bed, more now than ever. But touching Eren was of a different type to even that warm and familiar contact. Yet warmer, more familiar—one of the oldest things in Armin’s sense memory was Eren’s hand, a child’s clammy palm—and these days, it made him a little restless. Eager. Likely because they spent so much time apart; it made sense when he had gone weeks without hearing Eren’s voice. An unnatural deficit always sought equilibrium. 

“Safe journey?” Eren asked, with the deliberate restraint of someone who wanted to ask much more. Behind him, Armin could see the others approaching.

“Safe as it gets,” he said. Eren released him at the same time Armin pulled back, and he went to greet the commander. 

“I hope you’re well-rested.” Hanji’s voice had a relishing edge to it, even through the perpetual tiredness. “Today should be an interesting exercise.”

Armin felt his smile strain a little. “Commander. I hope it’s not disappointing, at least,” he said, with as much awkward humility he could manage. Better to change the subject—he inclined his head back behind him. “The carriage was a surprise.”

Surprising and unnecessary. More often Armin made the journey on horseback, though never without an escort. 

“I needed some supplies transported,” Hanji said. “Might as well make the trip worthwhile. Becker, Roth—would you mind?” This directed at the two engineers, who rushed to help the carriage driver unload.

The cases had been Armin’s only company in the coach. He remembered they were there now that Hanji mentioned it, but at the time he had not paid them any mind. To his eye, it did not appear to be enough cargo to have warranted special transportation. Neither did it look like the usual Survey Corps fare of spare equipment and gas tanks. But it was also not Armin’s place to pry.

“It was nice to keep out of the elements,” Armin said, honestly. The weather had been fair, but the breeze strong. On his way to Shiganshina, he had seen a fleet of tents—the temporary accommodation for the relocated civilian workers, to keep safe during the operation—and from a distance they had seemed to overlap one another like fish scales, bleached canvas rippling in the wind.

“You’re only going to feel it worse out there. Until you shift, anyway,” Levi said, and he gave Armin an appraising look. He jerked a thumb at the grounded lift. “Come on. Sooner we get started, the better. It takes long enough to get you brats set up.”  
  
  
  
  
Transformed, Eren could still stand comfortably on top of the wall. He was easier by far to see than Hanji and Levi, a fraction of his size and stationed a safe distance away, well out of Armin’s reach. Fragile was the wrong word, but looking at Eren like this, as Armin now stood tall enough to see Shiganshina over the wall, it was the first one that came to mind. He could crush Eren with these hands. Beneath his feet, there would be nothing left but a bloody streak; Armin would not even feel it. The thought made him nauseous, his blood running hot and then cold. Had Bertholdt felt the same? It was unnerving to imagine that he had seen almost exactly what Armin saw now, some six years later. Bertholdt would have been, what—eleven? twelve?—too young to bear. 

Eren raised a hand to him. It lifted his mood a little, amusing as it was to see such mannerisms from his titan form. If Armin were a human next to him, Eren could have carried him easily in that hand. He often had, and not once had it ever felt unsafe. At fifteen metres tall, still Eren was capable of such gentleness. Even as the tip of his finger took the full span of Armin’s hand. His titan’s skin, no different from human skin. The broad edge of his nail, the same. Each part of him Eren, still and always, no matter how he looked—just on a larger scale. 

Armin looked down at his skinless hands. Like an anatomical model, or an illustration in a doctor’s office. He could see the pull of the tendons, thicker than a ship’s rope, when he flexed his knuckles. He closed his hand into a fist, and he shut his eyes, letting himself feel. The pads of his fingers touched against the heel of his palm. 

For so long he had distanced himself from it. From what he was, what he had to be. Should he have found strength in this power? If nothing else, Armin knew he should have been grateful. It was a second chance at life that multiplied itself out into countless more: fatal injuries would heal in a day, at most. To lose an arm, an eye, the teeth that filled his mouth—they would simply grow back again. And yet, it made Armin feel more powerless than ever. He was no less weak as a man. Still he felt slow; still he grew tired. He remained wiry and short—enough, and at the same time, never enough. 

At this moment, in some ways, he _was_ stronger than Eren. Certainly if indiscriminate destruction were the sole criteria. Unskilled though Armin might have been, he would only have to walk to lay the district flat. Weeks of labour undone with such ease. There was a reason besides safety that he shifted without a civilian audience. Too terrible to look at, too huge to comprehend, the Colossus was an unwieldy weapon he had little hold on. 

He could do nothing about the former, but the latter he could improve upon. Armin moved his arm. It was like reaching through mud, but he could do it. He rested the back of his hand flat on the wall and unfolded his fist. Close to Eren, but not too close. The task was a simple one—at least, as Hanji had described it. All Armin had to do was lift Eren on to his shoulder. And it was easier even than that: Eren would step on to his open palm and off again. Armin just had to move his arm to enable him to do so. 

Eren approached with deliberate care, as if he were a wounded animal instead of a titan sixty metres tall. Though Armin fought to keep his fear within himself, Eren always knew. The thought was wry more than it was bitter, these days; Armin was learning again to accept kindness when it was offered. And it was always easier when it was _Eren’s_ kindness.

Slowly he climbed up on to Armin’s hand. He could feel the weight of him, less than it should have been with a titan’s disproportionate lightness—but there all the same. The needlepoints of pressure where he stepped. Armin felt his hand close and a reactive stab of panic, but it was only to hold Eren more securely in the cup of his palm. A reflex, as one knows to cradle a hen’s egg. 

He could be gentle. Like Eren could be. Size and strength did not preclude it. Once, his grandfather had freed a sparrow caught up in the fishing nets by the river. His hands—thick, dark, leather-like from working the land—had been huge around its body, but he had unsnarled its delicate legs from the mesh so gently. Birds had hollow bones, his grandfather had told him. So you had to be careful not to hurt them. 

Of course, Eren was not so vulnerable as a sparrow. Countless times he had protected Armin, with his words, with his strength; as a human, as a titan. That Armin might be able to return the favour, that had to be enough. He would embrace this power even as it crushed him into sleepless silence.

Eren stayed unmoving in his hand. Sitting, he noticed now—for stability most likely—but still he felt a curious pang of affection. Beneath the dark and shaggy tangle of his hair, his eyes seemed to glow. Eren. Still and always. How easily he stepped into his hand, without a moment’s hesitation. Armin should have known to expect it, and indeed it did not surprise him, but the implication of that trust struck him with new power.

It was simple, then, to lift him away from the safety of the wall and into open air. A gut-dropping height, high enough that sometimes clouds misted Armin’s vision, but still Eren did not flinch. A mistake now would kill him, surely. Armin felt the drumming of his pulse, inside his chest and all around him, but it was not a wild panic. It was manageable, usable. It only made him more careful as he raised Eren to his opposite shoulder. 

_Gently,_ Armin thought, _gently_. How Eren might touch his cheek with the pad of an enormous finger. The careful way he would turn his head to look at Armin clinging to his hair.

The scant weight in his hand lifted away. It was harder to sense, but Armin felt it now that he concentrated: Eren was on his shoulder. He was afraid to move to check, but he recognised the pattern of Eren’s touch against the exposed muscle that threaded his throat to his clavicle, as sure as if he had touched Armin’s human body. It had been decided beforehand. Three taps to say that it had worked; that he was fine; and that Armin could set him down again.

Small gains indeed. Armin set his hand level against himself for Eren to climb back on to. Still, he had always known that this was going to be a war of attrition. He would take inch by precious inch. Maybe he would never be so natural at this as Eren. Maybe Bertholdt’s mastery would linger forever in his mind, an untouchable standard. Certainly Armin had never been much of a sharpshooter. But given the time to take stock, to judge his trajectory, to steady his shaking hands near enough to stillness—Armin’s aim could be just as swift and true.  
  


* * *

  
Armin slept for three hours. He had not intended to, but then he never did. Armin was growing used to _that_ , too—the wrecking ball of tiredness that had him staggering to stay upright after he had shifted. Eren had assured him it would improve with time and experience. It hadn’t yet, and it made the idea of transforming more than once impossible. That Eren could do so multiple times—each time longer than Armin had even once, and each time exerting himself, whether fighting or building or otherwise—amazed him. 

He woke up to familiar walls, his bed in Shiganshina’s garrison. An interim base had been established in an old school, near the internal wall. It was smaller than any Armin had seen, smaller than even the trainee barracks, but it was sufficient for the size of the unit here. It resembled a dormitory, with its paltry med bay and more a dining room than a hall, and so the privilege of private quarters was a substantial one. Armin and Eren each had their own. Though that might have been too generous an appellation: they were so small that Armin often wondered whether they were converted storage closets. 

The frame of the cot creaked as Armin rose from it. Evening had fallen; the sky wore the shifting colour of dusk outside the slit of the window. Eren would be awake by now, if he had slept, and Hanji and Levi certainly would be. 

Armin’s body ached, but it was a good kind of ache. One that told of a job done—maybe not all that _well_ , but done—and he let himself be satisfied with that. As Armin stepped into his shoes, he heard the distant thunder of feet and voices. It was not all that remarkable. There might not have been many soldiers stationed here, but any number of soldiers could be loud, and this old schoolhouse was hardly well-insulated. Still, it was more excitable than Armin expected, even allowing for the usual post-mess rowdiness. 

As he reached for the door, Armin’s hand closed instead around empty air. He stumbled as it swung out of reach, but he caught himself before he fell forward into Eren’s chest. Of course it was Eren; anyone else would have thought to knock first. That realisation filled Armin with such inexplicable and inappropriate pleasure that it flushed his skin with warmth. 

“Eren,” he said, at the same time Eren said, “Oh, you’re up.”

There was no awkwardness at speaking over each other; Eren immediately resumed at Armin’s pause. “Hanji’s waiting,” he said, “you okay to go?”

They always met in Hanji’s office to discuss the operation after the fact. It was rarely a dissection that Armin enjoyed, but this time he felt no shame or trepidation. Together, him and Eren walked the corridors. They were spotlessly clean, but the must of old timber refused to be scrubbed away. Beneath it, a more nostalgic smell tickled his nose: chalk dust and paper, the pungent wood-scent of camphor.

A volley of laughter rose through the building.

“Is there something going on?” Armin asked, thinking of the racket he had heard back in his room. He craned his head around, though the hall was empty. “It wasn’t this noisy earlier.” 

The soldiers stationed at Shiganshina were usually rather sedate. It was a dull station; their duties here were as basic as they got. If they weren’t aiding in the reconstruction effort, they were monitoring the civilians, patrolling the wall, or managing deliveries.

Eren shrugged. A frown pinched his brows together, though he wore a thin smile. “That shipment Hanji ordered, that you came with?” He waited for Armin to nod. “It was alcohol. And a pretty generous amount of it, too.”

Ah. “No wonder, then,” Armin said. “It’s not been the most interesting post. The commander must have felt they needed it.”

Eren looked unimpressed. “Maybe,” he said, “but they should be grateful if they’re bored. And that doesn’t mean they should get complacent.”

A rush of sad fondness tore all thought from Armin’s mind. Hearing Eren speak that way, with Shiganshina coming to life around them and the joyous noise of the soldiers below—he couldn’t help but think of Hannes. The many afternoons spent watching him grow increasingly red in the face, his speech thicker, his laugh louder. And still so kind to three children who just couldn’t keep their noses clean.

Eren came to a sudden stop. Lost in the memory, Armin nearly bumped into his shoulder. At his involuntary noise of surprise, Eren spared him a curious glance but said nothing; he lifted his fist to the door—already they were at Hanji’s office—and knocked. 

“Come in.”

The commander sat behind the desk, Levi leaning against it. It was uncommon that he joined their discussion, and it didn’t seem like he was here for that now, either. Levi had a face like thunder. 

The salute was innate. Hanji waved it off. “Evening, you two,” they said, distracted. It was immediately apparent that they had been in the middle of a conversation, and Eren and Armin had not chosen the best moment to interrupt.

Levi gave them an acknowledging look, but whatever tangent he was on took precedence. He continued as if Eren and Armin were not there at all.

“You’d think it was gold you’d given them,” he said, with obvious distaste. “Running around like the brats that used to fill the place—they’re going to make a mess. As if it’s not already hard enough keeping this dump clean.”

“They haven’t seen a drop of booze in months. It’s worth a lot more than gold to them, trust me,” Hanji said. “Alcohol production has hardly been a priority.”

“And that’s meant to be a valid excuse?” Levi said, scathing. “Fine. Let them drink themselves stupid. Don’t come crying to me when you’ve not got a single one in condition for patrol duty tomorrow morning.”

“The civilians won’t be moving back in for another two days yet. That gives them plenty of time to recover.” Hanji shot him a wry look. “Anyway, how many soldiers are you meant to be worth, again? As long as you’re staying sober, I don’t see much to worry about.”

Levi grunted. “If you think you’ll get me doing rounds, think again,” he said. He began to walk away, but he went on under his breath; it was barely, deliberately, audible. “You could have sent for some tea, at least.”

Hanji smiled at the words, watching Levi’s back. It was apparent in their voice, too—Levi would hear the grin even if he couldn’t see it. “Oh? You know, I was only speaking with Flegel Reeves the other day about his generous investment in the new settlement,” they said with affected nonchalance. “I actually ordered this shipment from his company in Trost. Now I think about it, he _might_ have mentioned something about tea…”

Levi paused by the doorway, facing away still. When he spoke, he did so with the most perfect and deadly calm. “For your sake, Commander, I hope you aren’t joking.”

And without waiting for a response, without looking back even once, he opened the door and disappeared through it. Hanji released an amused breath. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not, then,” they said, turning their attention on Eren and Armin. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no. Sorry for interrupting,” Armin said.

“I told you to come in.” It was a pleasant sort of dismissal. “You two did well, today. We’ll give it another go tomorrow, anyway—it would be good if you felt up for trying something more complicated, Armin—but otherwise…” Hanji clapped both hands on to the desk, the noise finishing the thought for them. 

“Of course,” Armin said. His stomach turned uneasily at the idea of _something more complicated_ , but the day’s success was enough to settle it. 

Eren shifted next to him.

“Is that all?” he said, sounding not impatient so much as confused. Armin glanced at his profile; the frown was back on his face, though so slight that Hanji would not notice. 

“Well, yes, for now. Though…” They pushed their chair back from the desk and gestured in front of it. There, only a few feet from them on the floor, was a wine crate. “There’s a couple of bottles for you two, if you’d like them. Drink it, share it with the others, give it away and go to bed… do whatever you want.” 

They were out of their seat before either him or Eren could say anything, too stunned in that moment to speak. By the time Armin managed his mangled thank you and another pointless salute—for Hanji was not even looking at him—they were already halfway out the door. 

There was a short pause after it swung shut. 

“We didn’t even debrief,” Eren muttered.

“Maybe after tomorrow’s operation,” Armin said. He couldn’t parse the meaning behind Eren’s expression, his scowl darker now they were alone. He wasn’t the type to get frustrated over a lack of procedure. “There wasn’t much to discuss.”

“Yes, there was,” Eren said, his jaw setting hard. At last, he ground out, “There was enough.”

“I picked you up and put you down. Everything else we’d already done before.” Armin tried to sound fair. “It was—”

“Don’t say it was nothing,” Eren said, stealing the word right out of Armin’s mouth. 

Armin stepped back from him, that the extra foot of space might make Eren easier to read. But even as he did so, he felt his own gaze shifting away; the shame unsuppressed itself, writhing inside of him like a snake. “It shouldn’t be so difficult, though.”

“According to who? By what yardstick?” Eren snapped, though Armin knew the annoyance wasn’t for him. “They already take it for granted. We… _you_ deserve some acknowledgement.” 

He was able to contain his reaction, but still Armin felt the aftershocks of honest surprise. In its wake, there was a more tender feeling.

“I think that’s what _that_ ,” Armin gestured at the bottles left in the mostly empty case, “is meant to be.”

Eren gave it an acid glare. “Some wine? Wow,” he said, and the acid was in his voice, too, “how generous, what with every other soldier likewise getting drunk out there.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t need a reward for doing my duty, Eren.”

“It’s not about _needing_ it,” Eren said, louder and more forceful now. “You’ve earned it. Not just because of today, but for—for all of it. They don’t know what it’s like. They have no idea how hard it is!”

Again, Armin let the weight of his frustration hang in the air. He watched Eren’s face, and saw there not indignation but a more genuine hurt. Pain lashed beneath the rippling surface of his anger. 

At first he went to speak gently, but Armin thought better of it. Eren was not in the mood for empty comfort—he could recognise that much. Instead, he tried for straightforward. “You never got anything for what you did,” Armin said, and he felt himself wince at the coldness of that fact: Eren had never had anything but more expectations heaped upon him, every single time. “It’s not any different for me.”

There was a strangled sort of look on Eren’s face. His irritation faltered. “It is different.”

Armin cocked his head. “How?”

It was Eren’s turn to wince. He looked away, lashes casting a shadow over his eyes.

“It just is. Not because you’re not capable, or that you need special treatment... It just is,” he said again. Shyly, closer to a confession, but when he breathed a sigh the moment passed before Armin could think too much of it. “It doesn’t matter.”

 _It clearly does_ , Armin wanted to say. But he was reluctant to have this purging of feelings—not here, not when he was too tired to navigate it so well as he should and as Eren deserved. Rather than speaking, Armin lifted one of the bottles from its slot in the crate. It was pleasantly cold. Heavier than he had expected.

“I can’t remember the last time we had a drink,” Armin said. He looked at the label as if he could glean something from it. “Do you?”

Eren made a non-committal sound. “It’s been ages. Maybe… maybe after the medal ceremony.” He frowned again, more unhappy than angry. “I didn’t drink any.”

Armin hadn’t, either. The memory sunk in his stomach like a stone. “Oh, right,” Armin mumbled, and there was an awkward pause—entirely of his own making. Eren did not reply.

This was a lousy digression. But maybe he could save it still: Armin felt a spark of inspiration. “I wonder if we can even get drunk,” he said.

“What?”

He turned the bottle over in his hands. Condensation made his grip slippery. “As shifters. I mean, it does something to your metabolism, doesn’t it? We still don’t really understand the biological effects.” The curiosity was natural, honest. Armin let it carry him along. “Physical injuries heal, that’s obvious. But what about disease? Stomach pains or headaches?” He lifted the wine into the air. “Hangovers?”

There was a shift in Eren’s expression; it turned to one of tolerant amusement as he mused on the question. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve been sick once. I never caught any of the bugs that went round the barracks.”

Armin felt a smile rise on his own face. “And I used to think that was sheer force of will bolstering your constitution.”

Eren snorted and stepped close, the brittle atmosphere softening. He bent down to reach into the crate. As Armin watched his fingers close smoothly around the neck of the remaining bottle, something jumped beneath his navel. That, and Eren’s new proximity, made his palms sweat.

He placed his own bottle on the safe surface of the desk.

“It’s got a label,” Eren said, squinting at it, “so I guess it’s better than the table stuff we usually get.”

And before Armin could reply, he popped the cork free and took a drink directly from it. 

“It’s good,” he said, and he shrugged a shoulder, watching Armin watch him.

“I didn’t mean to test my hypothesis,” Armin said. He had been aiming for amused, but he only sounded nervous. It was hard to control his voice with the sudden seeding panic. Eren was very close, leaning against the desk next to him. In that context—him and Eren alone, some unspeakable emotion twisting Armin’s insides—the wine had become a dangerous element.

Very dangerous, when Eren held it out towards him. More so when Armin took it.

 _This is a bad idea_ , Armin thought, even as he lifted it to his mouth. Eren’s stare did not leave his face for a moment. 

It was better than what Armin had had before. The flavour not so concealed with sugar; nor did it taste merely of burning alcohol. The effect, he knew, was purely psychosomatic, but its heat chased a trail from his chest to his stomach and fuzzed the edges of his thoughts.

“... It is good,” he agreed, not knowing what else to say with Eren’s attention on him quite so intensely. 

Eren took it back. He drank, this time a little deeper. “That’s probably why they’re so thrilled. The soldiers, I mean.”

“I think they would have been happy with anything at this stage,” said Armin, thinking of Hanji’s words. 

Cold glass nudged against his wrist as Eren passed it again to him, and in comfortable silence they swapped it back and forth. Every time Armin felt the bottle’s weight shift from his hand into Eren’s, he stole a glance at his face. Eren’s mouth, red and shining. His eyes, almost black from this angle. Armin’s tongue felt swollen, stuck; the taste of the wine had deadened to nothing. 

There was perhaps a third of it left when Eren spoke again.

“I’m just wasting this,” he said, and he sounded tired in a way that owed nothing to sleeplessness. “Do you want the rest of it?”

“Not really,” Armin admitted. He was glad that Eren had said so—not that he was drunk, but he was already standing on shaky ground. Eren was still so close, and so warm, and Armin could not stop thinking about the fresh slick look of his mouth. “We don’t have to drink it.”

“Your experiment will have to wait, huh,” Eren said, a gentle tease. 

“Another time, maybe.”

An odd look slid over Eren’s face. “Yeah. There’s time,” he said, distantly—almost distracted. He sighed and set the bottle on the desk, next to the unopened one. “Hanji told me we should be able to make the first proper expedition beyond the walls, soon.”

Armin’s own expression went awry. Hanji had mentioned it to him, too, though only in passing. It was inevitable, of course. Already there had been several minor excursions made from Shiganshina, mostly to scout the area for titans. They were never gone for more than an hour, the recon squads. And each time, they came back with every member alive, all flares unused.

It should have filled Armin with excitement. And it did, still—a buoyant feeling that lifted him from some of his darker moods—but there was unease, too. A gut-dropping edge that lurked beneath the pleasant mist of the dream.

Eren was looking at him with his full focus again. In the space of Armin’s distracted silence, he had moved directly in front of him. It made avoiding his gaze impossible, but likewise it meant Armin could stare at him without shame. Eren’s hair was a little longer than usual, Armin noticed. His face, a little more lean. He had grown some, though not much; the changes only felt greater now that they spent more time at separate stations. But it was Eren. Still and always.

Armin heard his own hard swallow, a rifle-shot of a swallow. 

“You’re still excited to see it?” Eren asked.

Armin could not allow himself to hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “It’s just hard to believe, sometimes. It probably won’t feel real until I’m actually there.”

“I want you to be,” Eren said, fierce where he had been tentative before. “Excited, that is. You should be. When we get there, it’ll make everything… all of this… it will be worth it.”

When Armin dared to look again at Eren’s face, it was almost unbearable. Heartbreaking hope, so desperate it caught Armin’s breath. Even as that dark shadow moved underneath the glass-surface of his gaze.

Speaking was impossible. Everything he could think to say felt empty, and his heart was full in his throat. There was an expectant weight in the air. Armin was almost afraid of it. But at his silence, Eren said his name—so very softly. And when Armin still did not reply, Eren touched his cheek. With the gentleness that so many others thought him incapable of. 

Armin knew better. He knew too much, maybe. Enough that his feelings for Eren threatened to swallow all else. He had been avoiding them for so long, each and every time letting the realisation pass out of his hands like a rope ripped away. And then, with a coward’s wilful ignorance, he would stare at the flayed flesh of his palms as if he had no idea what caused the burn. 

“Eren,” Armin breathed. He hardly recognised the sound of his own voice. Such need, laid so bare. He had not meant to speak that way, but it was impossible to take back—and perhaps he did not want to. Eren was looking at him in such a way that Armin felt he could do and say almost anything and it would be an acceptable trespass. 

The kiss did not startle him. His own hands, clutching desperate fistfuls of the front of Eren’s shirt to yank him close, did not either, nor did the wild heat in his belly that had nothing at all to do with alcohol. What startled him was the gutting hunger that came with giving in. It cleaved him in two and it cleaved him together in the same shared breath. 

Eren broke from him. Armin did not release his hold on his collar. His mind swam, amazed that the wine-taste of Eren’s mouth could be so distinct from his own. 

“This is okay?” Eren said. He spoke with such quiet uncertainty that he must have been afraid of Armin’s answer. 

A verbal agreement would have done the job, Armin knew. But it would be better—it _was_ better—simply to pull Eren close and to kiss him again, with the rawness of his need on him like some other animal’s skin. Hoping that if he could just make Eren understand how much he wanted him, and trusted him, and loved him, that maybe he could chase that shadow of despair from the cold dark place it had planted itself.

The outside world loomed ahead; there was no escaping that, and Armin did not want to. But Eren was right in front of him. In this moment, none of that imagined scenery—endless sea or glittering sky or miles of sand—could come close. Eren was the one that had made the promise viable. Eren was the one that had saved him, over and over and over again, until they had made it here. Eren had snatched that dream from the vanishing realm of sleep and put it straight into Armin’s hands, a child’s hope shaped into tangible reality.

 _Only you_ , Armin thought, and he sighed the words into Eren’s mouth, not yet brave enough to speak them out loud. _It could only ever be you._

**Author's Note:**

> in its original iteration, this fic was meant to be more angsty, but after chapter 136... i just felt that armin needed a little tenderness. him and eren both. and so this ended up being a lot more divergent from canon than 'horror vacui', considering eren's behaviour and mental state (i.e. not so consumed by memories that aren't his own). it also wasn't meant to be nearly this long...
> 
> i like the phrase ['glass cannon'](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/glass_cannon) a lot (i didn't know until recently that it isn't a common term but rather an rpg trope—how telling is that?), and it just seemed especially appropriate for armin, considering his human "weakness" at odds with the immense power of the colossus.
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading! i have a lot of fun writing these two, so i hope you guys enjoy it as well.


End file.
